


I'll Learn To Dance If You Promise Not To Laugh

by torakowalski



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Established Relationship, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A College AU in which there are long distance relationships, misunderstandings, and no one actually spends any time in college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Learn To Dance If You Promise Not To Laugh

**Author's Note:**

> With huge thanks to harborshore for betaing this and especially for correcting my terrible typos (however much fun 'cockscrewing' sounds!)
> 
> Credit to themoononastick for her genius idea re the subject of Phil's thesis.

“Boston?” Natasha asks. “Again?” 

Clint doesn’t stop picking things off his dorm room floor and throwing it into his backpack: boxers, socks, lube, more lube, condoms, spare t-shirt.

“Boston again,” he agrees, making his voice the sort of cheerful that she should know by now means _drop it, please_.

Natasha takes a seat on Clint’s bed and plucks the unopened bottle of lube out of his bag, humming as she reads the label.

“Passion fruit,” she reads. She looks up and raises her eyebrows at him. “I would have thought you were more of a strawberry man.”

“Shut up,” Clint say firmly, twitching the bottle out of her hands and putting it back in his bag. “Phil likes passion fruit.”

“Of course he does,” Natasha says easily. Clint has no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but he doesn’t ask. He knows she doesn’t approve of Phil; he doesn’t want to get into that again right now.

He finishes cramming hair gel and his toothpaste into the gaps between his textbooks and shitty, cracked laptop and closes the bag.

“Okay,” he says, shrugging into the leather jacket and zipping it – it’s probably winter coat weather in Boston, but Phil loves Clint in leather. “Hate to love you and leave you, Nat, but I’ve got a bus to catch and – ”

“Clint,” she says quietly but firmly. “Why doesn’t Phil ever visit _you_?”

Clint looks around for anything he might have forgotten, accidentally-on-purpose avoiding her eye. He laughs shortly. “We’ve talked about this. He’s doing his MA; he’s way busier than I am. You know that.”

“Yes,” Natasha agrees, like she’ll give him that, but it doesn’t stop her. “But even once? Surely he wants to see where you go to school?”

“Drop it,” Clint says, snappier than he means to be but she’s rubbing a raw nerve and she knows she is. “I got no problem going to Boston, it works for both of us, okay?”

Natasha shrugs one shoulder and doesn’t push him. Not that she needs to; he already knows where she’s coming from. Clint’s known her since the second day of Orientation and they’re in the middle of their sophomore year. It’s no wonder she thinks it’s weird that she’s never met the guy he’s been seeing since high school.

If Clint let himself think about it, he might think it was weird too. Which is why Clint doesn’t let himself think about it.

Clint grabs his bag up by the strap, swinging it over one shoulder, and busses a kiss along Natasha’s cheekbone.

She doesn’t tell him to have a good time, but she smiles when he says, “Miss you,” and doesn’t explicitly tell him that he’s being dumb.

***

It takes just under five hours to get to Boston. Clint’s had quicker journeys in the year and a half that he’s been making the trek from New York, but it’s nowhere near the worst.

Phil’s there to meet him at the bus station too, which even makes up for the kid who screamed for the first two hours and kicked the back of Clint’s chair for the rest of the trip.

“Hey,” Phil says, pulling his hands out of his coat pockets and reaching for Clint.

Clint kind of trips into his arms – it’s not very dignified, but fuck dignity, it’s been seven weeks – and makes fists in the back of Phil’s coat, pressing his face into Phil’s neck.

He grins, rubbing his cheek against Phil’s. Phil hasn’t shaved. Phil _always_ shaves before Clint arrives, even though Clint loves boys with stubble. 

“Sorry,” says Phil, clearing his throat and pulling back. “I was in the library and I ran out of time before I had to leave – ”

“Hey, no.” Clint leans in and kisses his prickly cheek really quick – it’s Boston, no one is going to give them shit for kissing, but Phil is weird about PDAs. “I like it. Is this what happens when you’re a graduate student?”

Phil huffs, smiling. “It looks like it might be,” he agrees ruefully. He looks kind of pale, which is probably another thing that happens to you when you spend too much time in the library – Clint wouldn’t know; he does as much of his research as possible online.

“Well I’m here now,” Clint says, bumping his shoulder into Phil’s. “I’ll distract you.”

Phil smiles slowly, like it’s just dawning on him that that’s true or like he’s just waking up. “You can try.”

“Oh.” Clint says, clapping a hand to his chest and flailing about dramatically, even though they’re in the middle of the bus station and people look over at him. “Too good for me now, huh?”

That’s something that he’s secretly terrified will happen. It’s always best to joke about the shit you’re scared of, he’s found.

Phil rolls his eyes at him, looking kind of fond. “Are you hungry?” he asks. “I booked us a table at the Italian place you like.”

“Cool.” Clint grins at Phil and falls into step beside him. “We don’t have to though, if you’ve got work to do. We can go back to your place and eat there?”

“I booked,” Phil says firmly, and Clint doesn’t bother arguing. Phil never let him eat with his friends when he was an undergrad, so why would it change now that he’s got a house of his own?

“Well, if you _booked_ ,” Clint says, which makes Phil fake a scowl at him. 

Phil takes his hand as soon as they’re out on the sidewalk, so Clint tells the doubting Natasha in his brain to shut up and concentrates on just being here.

***

Phil asks about Clint’s classes over dinner and whether or not he’s picked a major yet, and it’s kind of like eating with Clint’s foster parents, except Clint can shut Phil up by putting his hand on his thigh under the table and the Spencers kind of frown on that.

“Really?” Clint asks, squeezing a nice firm handful of Phil’s nice firm thigh. “That’s what you want to talk about?”

Phil ducks his head, face getting kind of red. “Excuse me for worrying,” he says archly, but he covers Clint’s hand with his, rubbing his thumb along the spaces between Clint’s fingers, which he knows drives Clint crazy.

“Have you called your folks lately?” Clint asks, because two can play at the nagging boyfriend game. Even if they’re not exactly – well, they’re _sort of_ boyfriends. Kind of.

Phil smiles at him in a soft way that Clint doesn’t really understand. “Every Sunday. You know they have lunch with the Spencers every other week?” 

“Yeah. Weird huh?” Clint laughs, ignoring the shaky feeling in his stomach. It’s nice that Phil’s parents and Clint’s foster parents get on so good. It probably isn’t that much to do with the fact that Clint and Phil are… doing whatever they’re doing. They were neighbours long before Clint came along and met Phil.

“Completely weird,” Phil agrees, even though he doesn’t sound sure.

Not wanting to know what, exactly, Phil’s unsure of, Clint tries sliding his hand a bit further up Phil’s leg. He gets close enough to brush Phil’s balls with the side of his pinky before Phil pins his hand back down.

He doesn’t move it away though, so Clint leans over and presses his lips to Phil’s ear. “You don’t want dessert here, right?” he whispers.

Phil shivers, which is really fucking gratifying. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “They do serve an excellent warm chocolate brownie. Can you make a better offer than that?”

Clint bites down on Phil’s ear before shifting back. “Pretty sure I can, yeah.”

Phil’s hand shoots up, waving their waiter over. 

Clint grins to himself, holding onto the smug feeling that at least Phil always wants him.

***

Phil slams Clint up against the inside of his bedroom door and pushes his tongue into Clint’s mouth while the door is still clicking closed.

A coat hook jabs into the back of Clint’s head but he doesn’t care, he genuinely does not give a shit, just pulls Phil closer with his grip on Phil’s sweatshirt and sucks hard on Phil’s tongue.

They didn’t pass any of Phil’s housemates coming in, but then they never do so Clint doesn’t know if they’re alone in the house or not. He also doesn’t care, can’t keep the garbled moans from spilling out of his mouth and letting his head thump back against the door.

“Phil,” he begs up toward the ceiling, “ _Phil_.”

“Right here,” Phil promises, pulling Clint’s shirt out of his pants and pressing his hands to the bare skin at Clint’s sides.

His hands are cold and Clint shudders all over, but it’s great, Phil’s skin and Clint’s skin together is never anything less than good.

Clint peeks over Phil’s shoulder, contemplating shoving Phil straight backwards onto the bed, but Phil’s bed turns out to be covered in textbooks and workbooks and pens so he mentally vetoes that plan and pulls Phil in closer instead, fumbling between them to get Phil’s pants open.

They don’t talk, they just kiss, slow then fast then slow again. Clint’s crazily turned on already, all his nerve endings doing skittery, hot, painful things just at the thought of what’s coming.

Then Phil grabs Clint’s left leg, fingers biting into Clint’s thigh and drags Clint’s leg up over Phil’s hip.

Clint wraps his leg around Phil immediately, knee pressing into Phil’s ass. He’s still got his hand on Phil’s open flies, Phil’s cock hot through the washed-thin fabric of his underwear. When Clint lets himself be moved around how Phil wants him, shoulders pressed to the door and most of his balance dependent on Phil, Phil’s cock twitches happily under Clint’s hand.

“You’re so fucking predictable,” Clint laughs. 

He means that in the best possible way, but Phil growls under his breath and bites hard on Clint’s bottom lip like he doesn’t take it that way.

“Phil,” Clint tries, but chokes on his own protests when Phil drops Clint’s leg then sinks down onto his knees, pressing his face to the front of Clint’s jeans, before he opens them up and carefully frees Clint’s cock. Clint swallows. “Yeah?”

Phil looks up at Clint and smiles, easy and happy and kind of smug, before leaning up to fit his mouth around the head of Clint’s cock.

It’s warm and soft and _so good_ , it’s been so long – seven weeks seems _so long_ when Phil’s not there – and Clint doesn’t care that it’s sloppier than the usual ruthlessly efficient way that Phil does everything.

“That’s, yeah.” Clint tries and fails to say anything coherent or encouraging, giving up and tangling his fingers in Phil’s soft, dark hair instead.

Phil hums around Clint’s cock and takes him down deeper, teasing the underside with his tongue as he goes.

It’s a really good blowjob and it makes Clint’s knees shake, his toes curl, his lower back arch away from the door as he rubs his hands up and down the back of Phil’s head and tries not to just shove down Phil’s throat.

That’s more the sort of thing Clint enjoys than Phil.

Phil will suck Clint’s cock sometimes, but he doesn’t love giving head like Clint does; it’s usually something he does while getting Clint ready to be fucked or after Clint’s already come, to clean him up. Tonight, he’s apparently decided to make an exception because he’s not stopping, just driving Clint closer and closer and closer.

“Please,” Clint forces out, broken and breathless. “Please. Shit. Please.” Phil tugs on Clint’s hand until Clint looks down at him. His eyebrows are arched, questioningly and Clint laughs. “Yeah, I don’t know. I just, I just want to _come_.”

Phil smiles, lips curving until they’re stretched and indecent around Clint’s thickly swollen cock. He pulls off with a slow drag of teeth and takes Clint’s balls in his free hand.

“You should definitely come,” he agrees and goes back to sucking, just the head while he works the rest of it with his hand. He’s way less gentle with his hands than he is with his mouth and that’s exactly what Clint needs. 

His orgasm punches him hard, bowing his back and forcing him to thrust helplessly into Phil’s mouth, come surging out onto Phil’s tongue.

“Give me two minutes,” Phil says, standing up when Clint’s done and carefully lowering Clint to the floor. 

Clint curls around his own knees and grins to himself when he hears Phil gargle some mouthwash in his tiny bathroom.

When Phil comes back, he’s lost his pants, cock curving up toward his belly under his boxerbriefs and bouncing slightly with every step. He looks down at Clint and smiles, shaking his head at him. 

Then he glances over at the bed and his eyes widen before he winces. “Shit. I meant to tidy up before you arrived.” He starts lifting shit off the bed, piling it up as quickly as he can while still keeping the piles neat. 

“Seriously doesn’t matter,” Clint mumbles. He’s falling asleep against his own knees, which isn’t good. He needs to be awake, if he wants to show Phil a good time this weekend. Which he definitely does.

He staggers up to his feet and helps Phil get the rest of the bed clear, kicking his way out of his clothes and flopping down on the comforter as soon as they’re done.

“Tired?” Phil asks softly. He doesn’t sound like he’ll disturb Clint, if Clint says yes. 

Sometimes, Phil will dare and prod and poke Clint into doing what Phil wants him to do, but other times, he’s just so understanding and _nice_. Clint doesn’t know what to do with nice.

“Not too tired,” Clint says firmly and drags Phil down onto the bed to kiss him. 

Phil’s rock hard and he fits their hips together as soon as he gets vertical, rubbing his cloth-covered cock all over Clint’s groin, not really asking for something, mostly just getting comfortable.

“Anything you want,” Clint tells him, kissing his throat and up to his ear. “What do you want?”

Phil shivers but doesn’t answer, just slides his arms around Clint and keeps him close, turning his head to kiss Clint’s mouth again like he’d be happy to makeout all night.

Clint is not actually against that – Clint was barely seventeen when they first started this and they did a _lot_ of making out that first year – but he always gets this weird itch under his skin until he’s able to get Phil off the first time.

“C’mon,” he whispers, climbing over Phil and straddling him, squeezing Phil’s hips between his bare knees and rolling his soft cock against Phil’s hip. “Tell me.”

He could suggest things here, he could tell Phil how much he’s been thinking about getting Phil’s cock back in his ass. He _knows_ that’d be hot and Phil would like to hear it, but Clint’s not good at talking, and dirty talk always feels awkward and dangerous, like he might say too much.

Phil groans, managing to make it sound like orgasms are an inconvenience distracting him from his plan to kiss Clint until they both run out of air.

“You’re a brat,” he tells Clint and rolls them, pining Clint to the bed underneath him and mock-glaring down at him.

Phil’s gotten wider shoulders and more chest hair in the three years they’ve been doing this, but most of the time, he’s still the kid whose parents live next door to Clint’s foster family, who came home for winter vacation and accidentally swept Clint off his feet. But right now – backlit and broad, looming over Clint – he looks like a man, and it turns Clint on in whole new ways, makes him shake with how gorgeous Phil is.

“What?” Phil asks quietly, pressing the tip of his nose against the tip of Clint’s like a dork. 

If they had a different kind of relationship, Clint is pretty sure he could say _nothing; I just love you_ right now, and it wouldn’t be out of place. He can’t though, because they don’t say things like that to each other.

“Wondering if you’re going to fuck me,” he says instead, giving Phil his best and flirtiest smile.

Phil’s eyes go dark. “Was I supposed to intuit that psychically?” he asks dryly. “You need to use your words, Barton.”

Ha. No. Clint really doesn’t. “But you’re so smart,” he says, wide-eyed. “You mean they don’t teach mindreading at your fancy school?”

Phil bites Clint’s chin. Clint’s okay with that; he deserved it. 

Clint stretches out under Phil and rubs his foot up the back of Phil’s thigh. “Got condoms and stuff in my bag,” he offers.

Phil sits up and leans over the edge of the bed, pulling Clint’s bag closer and rifling around inside it. Clint would help, but he’s lazy, so he just settles for spreading his hand along Phil’s side, feeling where the skin stretches when he leans over.

“Did you pack for a siege?” Phil asks, sitting up with both bottles of lube and the giant pack of condoms somehow all held in one hand.

“A sex siege,” Clint agrees happily. “Doesn’t that sound awesome?”

Phil’s eyes go kind of far away. “It really does,” he agrees, sounding less mocking and more genuine than Clint was expecting. Phil is the sensible one; he usually at _least_ rolls his eyes at Clint.

Because he doesn’t know how to say, _hey, you okay?_ Clint knocks the lube out of Phil’s hand instead and flips it between his fingers. 

“Got your favourite flavour,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Phil shakes his head and drops the condoms, grabbing back the lube. “How thoughtful,” he says, arching his eyebrows. “What part of you do you want me to lick it off?”

It’s dumb. Phil isn’t being sexy; he’s being deliberately annoyed. But the idea of Phil licking things off him is enough to make Clint a lot more awake than he was.

Clint lets his knee drop, putting all the goods on display. “Take your pick,” he says.

It makes Phil growl at him, but it also makes him grab the lube and stretch out between Clint’s thighs.

“You’re not funny,” Phil warns him, words half-muffled into Clint’s thigh. “I don’t know why I missed you.” Then he dribbles lube down over Clint’s hole, before Clint can say anything to that. 

The most Clint was hoping for was another blowjob while Phil fingered him. He wasn’t expecting the firm press of Phil’s finger against his asshole, followed quickly by the warm drag of Phil’s tongue over his balls. 

He wasn’t expecting it, but he should have been, because Phil never backs down from a chance to make Clint fall apart.

“Oh shit,” Clint breathes and grabs handfuls of the comforter, accidentally kicking Phil in the small of his back when his feet jerk around for purchase. “Sorry, sorry.”

Phil crooks his finger inside Clint, missing his prostate the first time, but nailing it the second, and Clint moans. 

Some parts of Clint want Phil to keep up the foreplay forever, because it feels amazing, but the rest of him is pretty pleased when Phil finally pulls his fingers out and grabs Clint’s hips, holding him still for Phil’s cock.

“Oh, fuck, faster,” Clint whines, when just the head of Phil’s cock pushes inside. “I didn’t drive five hours for you to treat me like I’m fucking cut glass.”

Usually, Phil ignores him – Clint gets pushy and mouthy and Phil’s never complained, so he’s never bothered to stop – this time, Phil drops his head to Clint’s and kisses him hard.

“You should have,” Phil breathes against Clint’s mouth, but he thrusts the rest of the way into Clint at the same time, so Clint forgets to ask him what the fuck he means by that.

Phil’s the only person Clint’s ever had sex with, he’s the only person who’s ever fucked Clint, so Clint knows he’s biased, but he still doesn’t think anyone could do it better than this. 

It’s like Phil sits around, plotting different things to try to make Clint come harder than the time before, and it always works. This time, he sucks marks into Clint’s neck and corkscrews his hips and Clint doesn’t even know which way to twist first, just that he wants _more_ of it.

“Uh,” Clint tries, grabbing Phil’s shoulder and digging his fingernails into Phil’s skin so Phil will stay still while Clint fucks himself up onto Phil’s dick. 

“What?” Phil pants into Clint’s neck, licking over the hickey he made then starting a fresh one, overlapping with the first. Clint loves going back to New York covered in marks from Phil. He’s not sure he’s ever said that out loud, so it’s handy that Phil always knows everything anyway.

Clint shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he was trying to say. He’s just feeling kind of overwhelmed. 

He slides his hand up to Phil’s face and coaxes him to lift his head, kissing him like he wants to crawl inside him. 

Which he does. 

Clint spends a lot of time wishing he could curl up inside Phil’s chest, or tuck Phil away safe in _his_ chest. It’s stupid and pathetic so he never says it aloud, but times like this, when Phil’s fucking him and Clint’s scrabbling toward orgasm with his fingernails, it all rises up to the surface and threatens to come spilling out.

“ _Phil_ ,” Clint begs, meaning _make me come before I say something that’ll embarrass us both_. He pushes his hand down between their sweaty bellies and wraps it around his cock. His knuckles bump against Phil’s stomach, catching his bellybutton, while his cock leaks all over his fingers.

“Come here,” Phil says, taking hold of Clint’s waist and dragging his hips up, changing the angle, and making them both choke out gasps.

Clint tips his head back and pants for breath, jerking himself off faster and faster in time with Phil’s thrusts into him.

Phil’s eyes are squeezed closed, face flushing red. He looks like he’s getting desperate and Clint wants to help with that, but it’s kind of hard to do much from this angle. So he slides his free hand up Phil’s chest, burrowing his fingers into Phil’s awesome chest hair, and tugs, finding one nipple and pulling on it too.

“Yes. Can you… Again,” Phil breathes so Clint does it again, scratching Phil’s chest up a little, because Clint likes that and sometimes Phil does too.

Clint arches up into Phil and squeezes him tight between his thighs, holding on while Phil’s hips jerk helplessly until he moans and goes still.

“Yeah,” Clint says softly, when Phil slumps forward into him, “c’mere.”

He’s still hard, his hand still wrapped around his cock, but now trapped between them.

“Sorry,” Phil groans in his ear and kisses his cheek, rolling to the side and wrapping a hot, uncoordinated hand around the head of Clint’s cock.

That’s pretty much all it takes – that and another kiss – and then Clint’s coming again, laughing into Phil’s mouth.

***

Clint always wants to fall asleep pretty much immediately after sex, but Phil bullies him into the shower first.

“Fucking drill sergeant,” he sluts into the pillow once Phil’s let him crawl back into bed, which makes Phil laugh at him then squeeze Clint’s bare ass. 

He doesn’t stay awake long enough to see Phil crawl into bed with him, but he kind of assumes that it’s going to happen. Which is why it’s a shock to roll over in the middle of night and find that Phil’s still awake, sitting up at his desk in the corner and pouring over a notepad and pile of textbooks.

He’s pulled on a sweatshirt and some boxers, but he looks cold and stressed, hunched over into the dim light from his desk lamp.

“Phil?” Clint mumbles, confused. He pushes up onto his elbows and squints across the room. “What’re you doing?”

Phil twists around in his chair, wincing like the sudden movement hurts. “Go back to sleep,” he says softly. “Sorry if I woke you.”

Clint shakes his head, half in denial and half to wake himself up some. “But what are you doing?”

Phil shrugs. “I’ve got a meeting with my thesis advisor on Tuesday. I need to have something to show her.”

Ugh. God save Clint from workaholics. It’s bad enough when Natasha goes into crazy studying mode at the end of every semester.

“Seriously?” Clint asks, dragging himself upright and bringing the comforter with him, because it’s cold. “You really got to do it right now? On a Friday night when you could be doing something _way_ more interesting.” He shimmies a little, pointedly, since he’s naked here, so he might as well see if he can work it. 

Turns out he can’t. Damn. Must be losing his touch.

Phil just smiles weakly, rubbing his eyes before shaking his head. “If I don’t do it now, I’ll have to do it tomorrow and that will be no fun for you.”

Actually, Clint thinks that he’d rather have Phil in bed with him right now, even just for sleeping, and spend tomorrow watching Phil write his paper, but he’s not sure how to say that without sounding stupidly needy.

“Fine,” Clint grouses. His body wants to flop back into bed, but he doesn’t let it. “Want me to get you anything? Coffee or Red Bull or whatever?”

“I’m okay,” Phil says, shaking his head.

Of course he is, because God forbid that Clint accidentally runs into any of Phil housemates, thinks the tired, uncharitable part of Clint’s brain, before he can shut it down.

Phil sighs and beckons Clint closer. Clint goes – of course Clint goes – leaning across the gap between the bed and the desk, so Phil can kiss him slowly, carefully, maybe apologetically.

“Go back to bed,” Phil tells him. “I won’t be much longer.”

“Sure?” Clint asks. “I can…” He trails off, laughing at himself. 

He’s pretty sure he _can’t_ help Phil with his thesis. Clint isn’t academic; Columbia wanted him for his archery skills, not his SAT scores. Besides, Phil’s thesis is on war propaganda with an emphasis on Captain America and Clint knows jack shit about that that he didn’t learn from Phil.

“Go to sleep, Barton,” Phil says, more firmly, so Clint lets himself melt back into the bed, sinking into the pillow. 

He keeps his eyes open as long as he can, watching Phil work. It’s soothing, even though Phil looks harassed. Every now and then, Phil glances back at Clint. Clint waves his fingers the first time, but Phil looks guilty, so Clint pretends to be asleep after that.

***

Clint wakes up late to sunlight streaming in the windows and the desk lamp still burning at Phil’s desk.

Phil’s slumped over at a painful-looking angle, face-planted into a notebook.

Clint grins to himself and rolls out of bed, taking the time to pull on some boxers and a t-shirt before creeping over to the desk, and slaps his hands down playfully on Phil’s shoulders.

Phil wakes up with a start, sitting bolt upright, before his face goes abruptly white and he groans, dropping his head into hands.

“Shit, sorry,” Clint says, confused. “Did I hurt you?”

Phil waves him off. “I’m fine. Crick in my neck from sleeping wrong. Shit.” He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.

Relieved that he didn’t accidentally break Phil, Clint steps close again and puts his hand at the base of Phil’s skull, right where Phil was poking. 

“Let me,” he says, and spans his hands across Phil’s neck, digging into the sides of Phil’s neck with his thumbs. 

Clint gives good massages, he knows he does, but Phil waves him off after a couple of minutes with another, “I’m fine.”

He sits up carefully and rolls out his shoulders. “What time is it?”

Clint takes a look at the clock on the wall and makes a guilty face at the top of Phil’s head. “Nearly eleven.”

Weirdly, Phil doesn’t freak out about sleeping so late – probably because he didn’t sleep as much as Clint did – just stands up, wobbling a little before he gets his balance.

“I’m going to go take a shower, then I’ll take you out for brunch,” Phil says, turning off the desk lamp and plucking his towel off the radiator.

“Or we could just eat here,” Clint suggests. He never gets to eat Phil’s food in Phil’s house, and it’s starting to feel weird. Clint blames Natasha for putting the idea in his head.

“There’s no food in the house,” Phil says, dismissively, closing the bathroom door and calling through it, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Right,” Clint says to the empty bedroom. He wants to crawl back into bed and go back to last night when they were sweaty and naked and it was easy to forget that Phil’s probably ashamed of him.

***

There’s a diner near Phil’s house, where they always go when Clint’s visiting.

The waitresses recognise them quickly enough that Clint suspects Phil eats there a lot when Clint isn’t around too. Clint’s pretty sure he’s not cut out to be grad student, but he’d be good at eating like one.

Clint orders a massive stack of waffles, and devours them with half a jug of syrup and two slices of butter. 

Phil raises his eyebrows but Clint just grins, letting Phil see the half-chewed food on his tongue. Phil looks away.

He’s not eating, Clint realises. He’s drunk three cups of coffee, but he’s just pushing his eggs around the plate. 

“Hey, you okay?” Clint asks. Now he’s looking, he can see that Phil’s still really pale.

“Hmm?” Phil asks, eyes narrowed like his glasses aren’t working right for him this morning. “Slept badly.”

“Right, you’re sure you – ”

The kid at the table next to theirs drops his cup on the floor, glass hitting the concrete floor and shattering apart with a massive crash that makes Clint wince.

Phil goes from white to grey-green and his hand flies to his forehead.

For a second, Clint thinks he got hit by the glass, but it didn’t fly far and certainly not high enough to do more than poke him in the ankle.

“Phil?” Clint asks, squeezing Phil’s wrist. “Hey. You’re not okay, are you?”

Phil swallows hard and shakes his head minutely. “It’s just a migraine,” he says, voice not quite steady.

Clint swears. He’s never had a migraine, but his foster mom gets them and so does Natasha, and he knows that _just_ a migraine is like saying _just_ a broken leg.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, stroking his fingers across the inside of Phil’s forearm, because Phil looks terrible and Clint has no fucking clue what to do to help him.

Phil smiles slightly. “I thought I could convince it to go away,” he says wryly.

Clint laughs. “Even Phil Coulson can’t stubborn away a migraine, dude. Want to go home?”

“You haven’t finished eating,” Phil protests, but he doesn’t say anything else while Clint flags down the waitress, not even when Clint pays, which must mean he’s feeling really shitty.

“Okay to walk?” Clint asks when they’re ready to go. He knows he’s hovering, but Phil’s the guy who handles everything, Clint’s not used to him not being in total control.

Phil gives him a Look, so Clint forces himself to laugh and backs off a little. He sticks close to Phil’s side the whole walk back though, just in case there’s _something_ he can do.

***

“I’ll be fine,” Phil says impatiently, as soon as they’re back in his bedroom. “I need to get new glasses, that’s all. These ones are too weak and it’s making my head hurt.”

He sounds so sure that Clint almost buys it. Almost.

“Right, and it has nothing to do with you staying up working all fucking night?” he snaps, knowing that getting annoyed isn’t going to help, but not caring all that much. “You looked exhausted when I got here. Are you making yourself sick with this stupid MA?”

“It’s not stupid,” Phil retorts. “And I’m not sick, I just have a headache.” He rubs his temples, looking suddenly defeated. “Can we save the yelling until after I stop feeling like there’s a drill in my brain?”

Clint feels immediately guilty. “Yeah,” he says, sitting down next to Phil. “Or we could skip yelling at all. What do you need?”

“Nothing,” Phil starts to say, but Clint cuts him off with a disbelieving sound. “No, really, nothing. I have a prescription for triptans, but I need to get it refilled. I don’t suppose you brought some ibuprofen with you, along with all the condoms and lube?”

“No,” Clint says, distracted by the fact that he didn’t even know Phil _got_ migraines, but he must have them pretty often if he’s got pills from a doctor. “But hey, look, I’ll go ask your housemates. Someone’s got to have something.”

“You don’t have to – ” Phil starts but Clint has seriously had enough now.

“Yeah, I do,” Clint says firmly and gets up.

***

Clint knows the names of Phil’s housemates, because Phil talks about them on the phone sometimes, but he doesn’t know who sleeps where.

He tries knocking on the door next to Phil’s, but that turns out to be the linen closet. The room opposite is a big, communal bathroom but the one next to that has a bed in it.

No people, but a bed and a massive stack of records and an iPod charging on the floor.

At least Clint knows now that Phil didn’t just make up his roommates.

He finds everyone downstairs in the kitchen: two dark-haired ladies who seem to be bickering over how much sugar is too much to add to a cup of coffee.

“Oh, hey,” Clint says, stopping in the doorway awkwardly. He strode out of Phil’s bedroom on a wave of righteous indignation but forgot that he’s kind of terrible at talking to other humans.

Their eyes swivel to look at him at the same time. It’s sort of creepy.

“Hi,” says one of the girls. She’s got long, curly hair and the kind of boobs that Clint would be really distracted by, if he didn’t have Phil to think about. “Wow. Hi. You’re real.”

“Darcy,” the other girl hisses. She smiles awkwardly at Clint, pushing her glasses up her nose. Clint likes her immediately; he likes people who look like they’re going to be as bad as he is at social interaction. “Hi. I’m Jane. This is Darcy. You’re Clint?”

“I’m Clint,” he agrees, relieved that they at least know he’s here. “It’s really great to finally meet you guys, but I’m kind of on a mission. Phil’s got a migraine and I’m hunting for pills.”

“Oh no, poor Phil.” Darcy jumps out of her seat and makes anxious faces at Jane. “I told you he was working himself to death, didn’t I?”

Jane shrugs. “I think you did,” she agrees gamely.

Darcy huffs and rolls her eyes. “Grad students, seriously,” she says to Clint, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him back up the stairs with her. “I have no fucking clue how you’re dating one, kid. I want to strangle them half the time and they’re just my friends.”

Clint wants to object to being called _kid_ , since there’s no way she’s older than he is, but he’s more distracted by her pulling on his sleeve. “Where are we going?”

“My room.” She stops outside the door Clint peaked into earlier, turning back to look at him. He must still look kind of wide-eyed because her eyebrows flatten for a second, before she winks and shimmies closer. “It’s where I keep the pills, but if you’re interested in anything else…?” 

Clint swallows. “No, um. Just the pills?” She’s kind of a lot to take in. He wonders how on earth Phil met her; no one Phil hangs out with at home is anything like this… alive. 

Darcy laughs loudly and pats him on his hand. “Sorry,” she says. “I offer a kind of service to my friends sometimes, where I hit on their boyfriends to check they aren’t jerks. I never gotten a chance to do that to you before.”

Clint leans back against her doorframe and watches her route around in her bedside table. “I could still be a jerk,” he points out. “But I’m with Phil, so… You know.” He waves his hand uncertainly at her.

“Hmm.” Darcy stops what she’s doing and looks up at him, sharp smile turning sweet. “I don’t think you’re a jerk,” she decides. “An anti-social asshole, maybe, but not a jerk.”

“Wait, what?” Clint asks, but she pushes a bottle into his hand and doesn’t answer him. He looks down at the bottle in his hand. It’s prescription and it has Phil’s name on it. “Um.”

“Yeah.” Darcy shrugs. “He’s shitty at looking after himself, so last time he got his script refilled, I swiped the end of his old bottle.”

“You’re amazing,” Clint tells her sincerely.

Darcy flips her hair and grins at him. “I am,” she agrees serenely. “Now take them to him.” 

She flaps her hands at Clint, shooing him away, so he goes, letting himself back into Phil’s room and closing the door behind himself as quietly as he can. 

Phil curled onto his side on the bed, a pillow over his eyes. He tries to move it as soon as he realises Clint’s come back, but Clint’s not standing for that bullshit right now.

“You know, I’m not going to freak out if you’re not totally perfect,” Clint tells him conversationally, putting the pill bottle in Phil’s hand then stalking over to close the curtains.

Phil frowns down at the bottle but tips out two pills. “I don’t think you’re going to freak out,” he says, which is clearly a lie. “Did you rob a pharmacy?”

Clint takes the abandoned pillow off Phil’s lap and punches it a couple of times – partly to fluff it up and partly because he’s just kind of angry. “Nope. Your friend Darcy did.” 

Phil doesn’t blink at that, so apparently it’s to be expected, just tips his head back and downs the pills dry. He reaches for Clint as soon as he’s done swallowing, fingers sliding around Clint’s wrist then threading between Clint’s.

“Don’t be pissed at me,” he says, less of an order and more pleading. “I know I’m spoiling our weekend together.”

“Yeah, you’re totally doing this on purpose,” Clint says, rolling his eyes. 

He sits down on the bed and slides his free hand up Phil’s arm. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do next, but he vaguely remembers his mom playing with his hair when he didn’t feel good. He wonders if Phil would like that.

Phil doesn’t say anything, just carries on sitting there and looking pale, even though Clint’s made the room as dark as it’ll go in daylight.

“Fuck, just lie down,” Clint tells him. “Go to sleep.”

Phil’s jaw sets stubbornly but it doesn’t last and he sinks back onto the bed with a tired groan. He rolls over onto his stomach and hides his face in the comforter.

Clint lifts his hand and lets it hover over the back of Phil’s head, but drops it before he can touch. He’s out of his depth and probably in the way, here.

“I’m going to go,” he whispers, just in case Phil is miraculously already asleep.

Phil whips his head around, which must hurt a hell of a lot, judging by the cut-off sound he makes.

“No, don’t go,” he says. He’s starting to sound slurred, although Clint doesn’t know if that’s from the pills or from the migraine. “I can shake this off and – ”

“I meant I’m going to leave the room, let you sleep,” Clint says slowly. He gives Phil a fond _you idiot_ smile. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Oh.” Phil sinks back down and closes his eyes. “Stay.”

Okay, Clint’s starting to get freaked out. “I just _said_ I’m – ”

“Here,” Phil clarified. “It helped earlier, when you were rubbing my neck.” 

Clint frowns. “Then why’d you tell me to stop?”

Phil somehow manages to look away, even though he already has his eyes shut. “I’m, um,” he says then mumbles something too quiet for Clint to catch. 

“What?” Clint asks, letting himself reach up and tuck Phil’s hair back behind his ear.

“I said I’m not very good at needing help,” Phil says, in a grumpy rush, glaring at Clint through one half-open eye.

“Oh my god, really?” Clint gasps, widening his eyes in exaggerated shock.

“Shut up and give me a damn massage,” Phil tells him, turning his head back into the pillow.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Clint teases, but he’s more than happy to oblige. He starts slowly, working his way up to the base of Phil’s skull and keeping an eye out for any twitches that might mean he’s making it worse.

Phil’s never asks Clint for anything. He’s been there for Clint through endless shit, but he’s never asked Clint for anything in return. 

A massage when Phil’s in pain is a really inadequate way of starting to pay him back for all the things that he’s done for Clint, but it’s _something_ , at least.

***

It’s starting to get darker inside as well as out, when there’s a soft knock on Phil’s door. Phil’s out for the count and has been for hours, so Clint creeps over to the door and opens it a crack.

“Hi.” It’s Jane. She’s got pen ink down her cheek and an eraser shoved behind one ear. “We’re just about to have dinner. My boyfriend cooked. I don’t know if you’re hungry, but there’s plenty.”

Clint is actually starving, but he hadn’t wanted to disturb Phil. “That’d be really great,” he says. “But I don’t want to interrupt your date?”

Jane laughs, a soft snort of a sound that’s really endearing. “Darcy’ll be there. And Thor, my boyfriend, _loves_ new people.”

“Cool, okay.” Clint bounces awkwardly in place. “Okay, then.”

“Great.” Jane’s smile widens. “ _Great_.” She steps back and he looks back to check that Phil’s still asleep before following her downstairs.

The guy serving dinner at the breakfast table is fucking massive. He’s like a giant blond mountain of a man, big enough to be intimidating, but his face cracks into a happy, wide smile as soon as he sees Jane and only gets wider when he notices Clint.

“My friend,” he says, dropping his ladle into the pot and splashing some kind of gravy everywhere. He seizes Clint’s hand and shakes it vigorously. Clint shakes back just as hard because, well, this doesn’t _seem_ like posturing, but you never know. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

He’s got an accent and a weirdly formal way of talking and an expression that says _I like you!_

“Hey, man, it’s great to meet you, too,” Clint tells him, meaning it. He thinks hard and can just about remember Phil complaining about Jane having sex with her new boyfriend all over everything a couple months back. “You’re from… somewhere in Europe, right?”

“Norway,” Thor says, still grinning and waves Clint into a seat. “And you are from the state of Iowa and going to win a gold at the next Olympic games. Archery is a fine sport.”

“I…” Clint doesn’t know what to say to that. He looks across the table to where Jane’s taken her seat, but she doesn’t seem to think that anything’s weird.

“Phil talks about you a _lot_ ,” Darcy says, appearing out of nowhere and throwing herself into the chair next to Clint’s. “I mean like, a lot.”

“Should he not?” Thor asks, putting a plate in front of Darcy and another in front of Clint then sitting down next to Jane. “Clint is clearly an excellent choice for life partner and, from what I heard last night, they are more than a match in the bedroom.”

Clint chokes on a mouthful of sweet potato, accidentally spitting it half way across the table.

“Thor, honey,” Jane says mildly, handing Clint a napkin. “Some people think it’s odd when strangers talk about their sex life.”

“Here,” Darcy says, offering Clint a beer, which he accepts immediately. “They’re both awesome, but also it’s easier to be around them when you’re drinking.”

“Thank you,” Clint says with feeling, and eats and drinks and tries to be invisible for the rest of the meal.

It doesn’t go well. All three of them have all these questions. It’s like they already know loads of shit about him, but they want to check that it’s all true. 

Clint refuses to believe that Phil talks this much about him. Like, why would he? The only really interesting things about Clint – the shit about his parents, and Barney, and the circus – are the only bits that they don’t seem to know about.

“Okay, so,” Darcy says, once they’re done eating and Clint is wondering if he can make a run back to Phil’s room. Or, at least, insist on doing the dishes and locking himself in the kitchen. “You don’t seem like an asshole.”

“Thank you,” Clint says. He’s gotten used to how to talk to Phil’s Crazy Friends in the past half hour.

“So, like, why won’t you ever hang out with us while you’re here?” Darcy points her knife at him. It’s not threatening, but it’s also a _knife_ and it’s pointed at him. He maybe looks a bit too hard at her because she says, “Ooops,” and puts it down. “Question still stands though.”

“I… don’t think Phil wants me to?” Clint tries. It’s a stupid answer, but it’s all he’s got. “I mean, he probably doesn’t want me getting in your way, you know?”

“Bullshit,” Darcy tells him firmly. Clint looks at Jane and Thor for backup but they both look like they agree with Darcy. “Phil thinks you don’t want to. He told me once. Admittedly, I had to get him really, _really_ drunk first, but drunk Phils don’t lie.”

“I thought that was hips,” Clint mutters.

Jane’s lips twitch and Thor laughs, but Darcy is clearly a girl on a mission. “Next time you visit, I want to see you for dinner every day,” she says, like it’s some kind of threat. “And brunch on Sundays.”

“Okay,” Clint agrees. “I honestly don’t have a problem with that.” He stands up. “You mind if I – ?” He jerks his thumb up toward the stairs. 

Darcy waves him off and the others murmur good night, and Clint has to stop and make a real effort to say it back, because he _doesn’t_ want them to think that he’s an asshole, but he’s also got a lot to think about right now.

***

Phil sleeps through the night and wakes up early the next morning. Clint didn’t sleep too well, so he’s sitting on Phil’s desk, drinking coffee and texting Natasha.

She has a lot of opinions and she manages to convey them all in one-word answers.

“Hi,” Clint says, keeping his voice down. “How are you feeling?”

Phil stretches and rubs his eyes, looking groggily, endearingly confused. “Like I got beat up,” he says after a pause. “But the headache’s gone.”

“Cool, good.” Clint tries not to sound too relieved, but it turns out that he worries about Phil a lot. “Hungry?” He picks up the pastry bag from Phil’s desk and waves it.

Phil sits up and reaches for it. “You went out?” he asks, rifling through the bag and wolfing down a croissant in three bites.

Clint shrugs easily. “No, Thor did. There’s more in there, if you’re still hungry.” 

Phil hesitates over the bag, finally pulling out a cinnamon roll and picking it apart, slower this time. “You met Thor?”

“Yeah, he’s cool.” Clint leans over and passes Phil the coffee. “I don’t know what’s in this, but he said it’s your favourite.”

Phil finishes the roll and takes the coffee, peeling back the lid to sniff it cautiously. Probably sensible. After a second, he grins and takes a long drink. 

Clint raises his eyebrows.

“It’s a vanilla almond cappuccino.” Phil shrugs. “It actually _is_ my favourite.”

Clint smiles quietly and tries not to feel hurt that Thor knew that and Clint didn’t. “Good for Thor.” He fiddles with his own cup, picking at the corrugated paper. “He makes good dinner, too. I, um. I had dinner with him and Darcy and Jane last night.”

Phil looks up at him, expression carefully blank. “How were they?”

That’s a weird question, Clint thinks. “Fine?” he tries. “I mean, Darcy’s kind of terrifying and Jane looks like she’s tuned in to slightly the wrong frequency, but they seem like good people. Thor thinks you and I are good in bed.”

Phil starts coughing, which was kind of Clint’s plan. It gives Clint time to think through what he wants to say next.

He puts his coffee down and shifts from the desk to the bed. “Sure you’re feeling better?” he asks, first. When Phil nods, Clint makes himself go on. “Your friends think that I don’t want to hang out with them, because we never do, when I’m here.” 

Phil’s eyes go wide and slightly panicked.

“So, like.” Clint doesn’t know how to ask this. “We never eat here and we spend all our time in your room. Did you think they wouldn’t like me, or what?”

“No,” Phil says quickly. “Of course not. Who wouldn’t like you?”

Clint snorts. The answer to that is pretty much everyone. “Right?” he says instead. “That’s my point. I’m charming as fuck; I could totally have charmed your friends, it you’d let me.”

“I just don’t want you to get bored,” Phil says defensively. He looks unhappy about… something. He can join the club, because Clint’s feeling pretty unhappy about everything.

“Bored?” Clint repeats. “I don’t come here for the entertainment, I come here for _you_.”

Phil raises his eyebrows slowly.

“Oh fuck you, you know what I mean.” Clint waves a hand around. “When you say you don’t want me to get bored, that just a really nice excuse that means ‘I’m ashamed of you, so I’d rather my fancy friends didn’t meet you’, right?” 

Phil actually looks shocked at that. Clint hopes desperately that it’s because he’s wrong, not because Clint’s worked him out.

“Ashamed of you?” Phil repeats. He sits forward, grabbing Clint’s wrist hard. “Tell me you don’t really think that.”

Clint tries to shake him off, but not too hard. “I really think that sometimes,” he says, shrugging.

Phil groans, bringing up his free hand to rub at his eyes. “Fuck. How did I fuck this up so bad?” he asks his palm. When he looks back up, his expression is determined. “I’m _not_ ashamed of you.”

“Okay.” Clint nods slowly. “Okay.” Phil looks like he really wants Clint to believe him and Clint really _wants_ to believe him, so he’ll hear him out. 

“I understand that my life is boring,” Phil starts slowly. “I don’t expect you to be interested in my degree or to spend your free time getting to know my friends. I’m not asking you for that.”

Wow, Clint isn’t sure if he’s offended or just hurt. “Fuck you,” he says, in a completely different way than he meant it earlier. “Just, just _fuck you_. I get that I’m not the guy you’re going to spend your life with, but do you have to make it so obvious? That’s just, it’s…” It’s cruel. Clint’s never known Phil to be cruel before.

“Wait, what?” Phil asks, staring hard at Clint.

“Yeah, I’m - ” Clint jerks his thumb toward the door. “Just. Go back to sleep or something.”

“Clint,” Phil shouts after him, but Clint slams the door with enough force that he thinks he got _don’t follow me_ across pretty well.

***

Thor doesn’t ask any questions when Clint slumps down next to him on the couch and picks up the spare PS3 controller, just nods his head at Clint and lets Clint take a turn at Call of Duty.

Killing a fuck load of pixel people doesn’t make Clint feel much happier, but it does make some of his rage easier to breathe through. By the time the screen explodes in a fiery ball of orange, Clint’s mostly just sad.

“Want to go again?” he asks Thor, who says, “Indeed,” very solemnly but hesitates before taking the controller from Clint.

“What?” Clint asks, looking over at him. “Oh.” Phil’s standing in the doorway, watching Clint watch the screen.

“Can I talk to you?” Phil asks carefully.

“Maybe,” Clint agrees, feeling childish. “If you can get further on this map than I just did.”

He’s expecting Phil to rolls his eyes and guilt Clint into coming away with him. Instead Phil says, “Okay,” with a really determined tone in his voice and squishes down onto the couch between Clint and Thor.

His thigh ends up pushed right up against Clint’s and it’s only not distracting because Clint’s mad at him.

Turns out that Phil has developed secret, ninja computer game skills since Clint last played against him. It takes him way less time than it took Clint to get way further in the game. He makes this satisfied little “Ha!” sound every time he shoots another guy’s head off and it shouldn’t be hot, it really shouldn’t, but it is.

“There,” Phil says, dropping the controller at the end of the level and hitting save. He turns to Thor and grimaces. “Don’t tell Darcy I did that?”

“Why?” Clint can’t help asking.

“She’ll make a big deal of it,” Phil says dismissively. He touches Clint’s wrist. “Coming?”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, since he made a bet and Phil won. He stops in front of Thor though and Thor grins at him. 

“Darcy runs a gaming club,” Thor confides in a whisper that isn’t really very quiet. “She greatly desires for Phil to join her team, but he refuses.”

“I’m busy,” Phil says quickly, like it’s an old argument. 

“Nah. You should make time for your friends,” Clint tells him, sliding past him and out into the hall. 

He kind of doesn’t want to go back to Phil’s bedroom, so he sits down on the stairs instead. If Phil’s surprised, when he comes out and sees him there, he doesn’t show it, just sits down next to him, leaving a couple of inches between them this time.

“I think,” Phil says, after an endless and excruciating pause, “that we might both be coming at things from the wrong angle.”

Clint flinches. He doesn’t mean to and wishes he could take it back immediately, but he can’t help it. “Yeah,” he mutters, looking down at a mysterious stain on the knee of his jeans. “I got that.”

“I don’t think you did.” Phil puts his hand on Clint’s thigh, squeezing carefully. “What you said, about not being the person I’m going to spend my life with?”

Clint feels his face go hot and glares hard down at nothing.

Phil shakes Clint’s leg. “Please look at me.” Clint does, looking Phil right in the eye: he looks ridiculously sad. “If I knew _any_ way to make sure that I got to grow old with you, do you think I’d ever let you go?”

“What?” Clint chokes out. His windpipe feels like someone’s squeezing it in their fist. “I don’t understand.”

“The very first time I kissed you, you told me you weren’t looking for anything serious,” Phil says with a sad little smile. “I’ve been trying very hard to respect that.”

“I was _seventeen_ ,” Clint says, still so confused. “I didn’t want you to think I was a tragic little kid. I would have said fucking… fucking _anything_ to make sure you kissed me again.”

Phil laughs humourlessly. “Because you’re so much older now?”

Okay, Clint kind of wants to punch him. He doesn’t. “I’m nearly twenty. So yeah, I’m quite a lot older. So, what? You thought I was with you for the sex and nothing else? That’s… that’s why I never got to meet your friends and why you never came to me, because you were setting yourself up as my booty call? Fuck, Phil.”

“Not quite,” Phil says, but his eyes dart away from Clint and Clint knows him – he _does_ – and that means _yeah, pretty much_. “I have slightly more self-esteem than that. I know you enjoy being with me. But you’re going to get bored eventually, you’ll find someone more suitable, and I’d rather you weren’t too embroiled in my life when that happens. It’ll be easier for us both, if we can make a clean break, when the time comes.”

Clint has no idea what to say to any of this, but it’s making him feel shaky and awful.

“But I love you,” is all he can think of to say. He doesn’t even regret it.

Phil stares at him. “You don’t have to say that,” he says, shaking his head. 

Clint thinks about how Phil cheered the loudest at Clint’s graduation, how he flew home early from his London vacation when Clint called to say that Barney had died. He remembers Phil coaxing him through every step of applying to college and letting Clint freak out all over him when he actually got into Columbia. 

“Yeah, no.” Clint reaches over and pokes Phil sort of awkwardly in the arm. “I think I should have said it a couple years ago.”

“Oh,” Phil says quietly. Clint doesn’t panic. Definitely doesn’t panic. “Me too.”

Clint grins, tries to swallow it down and totally fails.

“Put that damn smug face away,” Phil tells him, but he leans into Clint’s side and he’s smiling too.

Clint lets his head drop onto Phil’s shoulder. They probably need to talk some more, but fuck does Clint ever hate talking. Sitting here and absorbing Phil’s warmth and the sleepy-coffee smell of him sounds way more fun.

“Hey,” Phil says after he’s let Clint wallow for a while. “Want to go out for brunch?”

Clint freezes and feels his smile start to slip. “I, um,” he starts, lifting his head. If nothing’s going to change then why did they just have that conversation?

“I was thinking we could wait for Jane and Darcy to wake up, invite Thor along too, make a morning of it,” Phil says totally blandly, like this isn’t essentially the most important thing he’s ever done for Clint.

Clint swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

***

Phil and Clint’s favourite waitress looks startled to see them arrive with extra people in tow, but she finds them all a bigger table and is instantly charmed by Thor’s enthusiasm for _everything_.

It’s nice. It’s awkward because Clint doesn’t really know these people, but they know a lot about him. Plus, it turns out that he and Phil are kind of clumsy at interacting with each other in front of other people. It’s not as bad as it could be though, and Clint is good at practising and working hard, so he’s pretty sure they’ll figure out how to make it work eventually. 

He texts Natasha a play-by-play under the table and she lets him ramble on happily for six messages before interrupting with one very firm: 

_From: Natasha  
My turn. Bring Phil here. I want to meet him._

Clint nudges Phil and shows him the screen. Phil’s eyebrows lift toward his hairline.

“Is she going to try to kill me?” Phil asks.

Clint laughs, entertained by Phil’s naïve use of _try_. Not even someone who can blast their way through Call of Duty is a match for Natasha Romanoff in a bad mood.

“Depends,” says Clint, casual as he can. “You going to come meet her?”

Phil takes Clint’s phone out of his hand and tilts the screen away while he types a reply to Natasha.

Clint fidgets impatiently, almost snatching the phone back when Phil’s done. 

“What did you tell her? Did you… oh.” Clint reads the text twice just to make sure he didn’t make a mistake.

_To: Natasha  
Looking forward to meeting you next weekend – Phil Coulson._

“Huh,” Clint says and drops the phone onto the table, grabbing Phil’s hand instead. “Yeah?”

“I think it’s time, don’t you?” Phil asks wryly.

Clint snorts and squeezes Phil’s fingers. “Yeah,” he says, “I really do.”

/End

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Train's Feels Good At First.


End file.
